


Desperate Measures

by Mer



Category: Midsomer Murders - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, some blood and violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:28:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29638806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mer/pseuds/Mer
Summary: Wherein Tom is tired of the violence that lurks around every corner of Midsomer, Ben is an escapologist, and Joyce makes a mean cup of cocoa.
Relationships: Joyce Barnaby/Tom Barnaby, Tom Barnaby & Ben Jones
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ...And the author succumbs to an upbringing on American cop shows and the inevitable police shooting that bears very little resemblance to the reality of police shootings. But Midsomer Murders has never been about plausibility...

DCI Tom Barnaby was tired of being tied up, tired of watching helplessly as chaos erupted around him, and tired of the violence that lurked around every corner of Midsomer county. He glared at Leo Remick, the latest villager to go on a crime spree. He had gone from bribing public officials, to blackmailing councillors, to finally killing anyone who stood between him and his plans for the old mill by Upper Melton.

Now he was pacing up and down the parlour of his manor house, brandishing a shotgun at the three other occupants of the room. Barnaby was really tired of seeing guns pointed at him.

Will Beckett, Remick’s long-time lawyer and friend, and more recent crime partner, was curled in the corner, clutching his thigh. Beckett had found his conscience and an old pistol in Remick’s desk, but Remick had been the one to pull the trigger. He’d only clipped Beckett, however; maybe four decades of friendship had put his aim off, but Barnaby didn’t think he’d have the same scruples for a couple of coppers.

Barnaby glanced past Beckett to the last occupant of the room. His sergeant, Ben Jones, hadn’t moved since Remick and Beckett had thrown him into the study, hadn’t even flinched at the shotgun blast. But Barnaby thought he could spy a hint of possum on Jones’s carefully slack features. As if sensing Barnaby’s thoughts, Jones cracked one eye open and mouthed, ”Keep him talking.”

Normally Barnaby wouldn’t take direction from newly minted sergeants, but he’d learned to defer to his junior on matters of action. “It’s not too late, Leo,” he called out. “Put the gun down and let us get help for Will. You don’t want him to bleed to death.”

“Shut up,” Remick snarled. “This is your fault. Another few hours, and I would have been free and clear.”

That wasn’t entirely true. The sale of the land rights was due to go through that afternoon, and Remick clearly intended to do a runner once the money hit his account, but the scheme started unravelling the second someone - Remick, he was now certain - cut the brakes on Peter Deering’s truck. 

Barnaby and Jones had been following separate threads, but both ultimately led back to Remick. Barnaby had gone to the manor house to check on a telephone conversation Remick had with Deering two days before his death, accepted a cup of tea, and woke up an hour later tied to a chair. 

Jones had been looking into bank records. Barnaby could only assume that he had found something that tied Remick to one of the victims. Though if he hadn’t been suspicious before, finding Barnaby’s car at the manor house, but no sign of Barnaby, certainly put him on alert. The tea ploy either hadn’t worked with Jones, or hadn’t even been tried. Instead, Barnaby had heard a series of crashes and a distinct thud. Barnaby tried not to think what that had done to Jones, though Remick, at least, had the makings of a black eye.

“You left a paper trail that a Beaver Scout could follow,” he told Remick. “We know you bribed members of the council to overturn the heritage status of the mill.” Joyce had been appalled; so had Jones, surprisingly. Apparently, a number of his relatives had worked at the mill back in the day. The two of them had convinced Barnaby to wrest the file from fraud. Though Midsomer being Midsomer, the bodies soon started to pile up. 

“My family ran that mill for three hundred and fifty years. My father ruined his health trying to keep it open. I have every right to redevelop the land.” He lowered the shotgun to gesture indignantly, and Barnaby breathed a sigh of relief.

“Your father leased the building to the historical society in his will to preserve the family heritage and guarantee an income for you and your sister,” Barnaby retorted. Joyce had filled him in on the whole history. “Did you decide that wasn’t good enough after Sophia died?” If they got out of there, they would need to look into Sophia Remick’s death as well. 

He glanced over at Jones. He had shifted backwards until he was pressed against the wall, and his eyes were open now, tracking Remick’s every move. He looked at Barnaby and gave a tight nod, shifting slightly to show that his hands were free.

Barnaby didn’t know what Jones had planned, but it was likely to be desperate and foolhardy. Still, he knew Jones would wait to see if he could somehow talk Remick out of this lunacy. “Cut your losses and walk away,” he said. “You’ll be out of the country before anybody finds us.”

Remick wouldn’t be out of the driveway before Jones would be after him, but that certainly wasn’t information he needed to know. 

“Then it doesn’t much matter if I leave you alive or dead,” Remick replied. 

He lifted the shotgun again, and Barnaby knew they’d run out of time. As the barrel swung towards him, he saw Jones dive for Beckett’s gun, lying free just a few feet away

Startled, Remick turned, but as he adjusted his aim, Jones rolled onto his side, took a deep breath and fired, a split second before Remick pulled the trigger. Remick flew backward, shotgun clattering to the floor from suddenly slack fingers. His shot went high, splintering the wood paneling inches above Jones’s head.

Jones lay still, and for one heart-wrenching moment, Barnaby thought he’d been hit after all. “Jones!” he shouted. He tugged at the ropes binding him to the chair, but it only tightened the knots. 

At last Jones stirred, pushing himself onto his hands and knees. He looked at the pistol still in his hand, then dragged himself upright and stumbled to Remick’s body. 

It most definitely was a body. The bullet had struck Remick below his left eye, tearing open the side of his face. Still he watched anxiously as Jones kicked the shotgun across the room, and then squatted down to press his fingers against the pulse points on Remick’s neck and wrist. “He’s dead,” Jones said, his voice hollow. 

He stayed still for a moment, his head bowed, then went over to Beckett, who was now unconscious. Jones ripped off his tie and used it to keep pressure on the leg wound with a folded handkerchief, then shifted Beckett into the recovery position. He shrugged out of his suit jacket, laying it over Beckett. 

Only then did he look at Barnaby. Tom flinched. Jones was never one to hide his feelings — Barnaby had had to quell an Ill-timed grin too many times to count — but the raw emotion on Jones’s face took his breath away. Again, he struggled against the ropes, trying to find a semi-dignified way to get to his sergeant. 

Jones noticed and went to him instead. “Hold on,” he said, his voice rough, almost breaking. He fumbled with the rope around Barnaby’s wrists, but the knot was pulled tight from his struggles, and Jones couldn’t seem to get a proper purchase. 

“I’ll get a knife,” he said, standing up and wandering towards the door.

“Try the desk,” Barnaby said. It seemed to have all manner of weapons. At the very least, there would be scissors or a letter opener. But Jones seemed not to hear him, drawn by the sound of approaching sirens. Someone must have called the police at the sound of gunfire. Too little, too late, Barnaby thought, watching helplessly as Jones disappeared outside. 

When he didn’t return immediately, Barnaby started to worry; when two patrolmen rushed in, but Jones was still nowhere in sight, he knew something was wrong.

“Where is DS Jones?” he asked, as one of the patrolmen cut the ropes loose, while the other checked on Beckett.

“Waiting outside for forensics and the ambulance.” The patrolman looked at the bloodstained rope in his hands. “You’ll need to get looked at yourself, sir.”

Barnaby frowned and looked down at his wrists. They were rubbed raw from struggling with the ropes, but not bleeding. “That’s not my blood,” he said and stood up. He walked over to where Jones had been tied up and saw a broken glass. He hadn’t given any thought to how Jones had gotten free before, but the sight of a bloody shard made everything clear.

“Stay here,” he told the patrolmen. “Make sure everything is left as is until SOCO gets here, and monitor Mr. Beckett until the ambulance arrives.”

The door handle was smeared with blood as well, and the worry spiked to near panic. “Jones!” he called out again, when he didn’t see the younger man by the patrol car. He knew he couldn’t have gone far, remembering how unsteady Jones had seemed, so he spun around, scanning the yard for a glimpse of his missing sergeant. Finally, he saw Jones sitting on a bench near the gate, his head bowed low.

“Jones,” he called out softly, not wanting to startle him, but Jones didn’t move, not even when Barnaby sat down beside him. “Where are you hurt?”

Jones straightened up slowly and held out his hands, looking down at them. There were a number of cuts, around his palms and wrists, most of them just shallow slices, but one on his left palm was deep and bleeding sluggishly. Barnaby pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the blood away to get a better look.

“I think you’re going to need some stitches,” he said casually, holding firm when Jones tried to jerk his hands free. “Stay here and I’ll get the first aid kit from my car.” When he got back, Jones was still staring down at his hands.

“It’s very Lady Macbeth,” he said dully, as a fresh trickle of blood dripped onto the grass.

“I thought you didn’t like Shakespeare,” Barnaby replied. 

Jones didn’t react, but he did pull his hands away when Barnaby tried to clean the cuts. “You need to take a GSR sample first,” he said. “Not that there’s any doubt that I killed him.”

“Right,” Barnaby said, a little chagrined that Jones had to remind him about basic procedure. “We still need to stop the bleeding before forensics gets here.” He taped a gauze pad against the worst of the cuts as a stopgap and hoped SOCO would arrive soon. At least they were on the outskirts of Causton, not miles from headquarters.

“That must have hurt,” he mused, imagining Jones sawing blindly, the glass cutting into skin as much as rope. “I’m sorry I led you into this.”

That made Jones meet his gaze at last. “It’s not your fault, sir. I let them get the drop on me.”

“They got the drop on both of us.,” He could see a bruise forming on Jones’s cheekbone, and he suspected he hadn’t entirely been playing possum. “How hard did he hit you?” he asked, wondering if he should be concerned about a concussion. 

“Not as hard as he thought,” Jones replied. “Didn’t want him to see me as a threat.” He shuddered suddenly, and Barnaby took off his jacket and draped it around Jones’s shoulders.

Barnaby breathed a sigh of relief when the ambulance pulled up, followed closely by George Bullard’s car. He hurried over to meet them, not wanting to leave Jones alone too long. “One fatality inside and one gunshot wound to the leg. Multiple lacerations over there,” he said, pointing to Jones.

Bullard took charge. “Look after the GSW inside,” he directed the paramedics. “I’ll take a look at DS Jones before I deal with the body.” He looked Barnaby over. “What about you, Tom?”

“Remick slipped me a mickey. Jones got rougher treatment. But he managed to cut himself free with a broken glass. Sliced his hands to pieces.” He held Bullard back a moment. “He killed Leo Remick. Saved both our lives. But he’s taking it hard.”

“First time?” Bullard asked. 

“Yeah,” Barnaby could count on one hand the number of times he’d killed in the line of duty, but each one was seared in his memory. 

Bullard nodded and approached Jones as he would a skittish horse, Barnaby trailing behind. “Tom says you cut yourself pretty badly,” he said gently. “Mind if I take a look?”

Jones looked up, managing a faint smile. “Must be really bad if the pathologist is checking me out.”

Bullard smiled back. “I do have a medical degree, Benjamin. I just prefer patients that give me less lip.”

“Yes, sir.” Jones looked down again, but held out his hands. He flinched when Bullard carefully peeled away the gauze pad, and Barnaby put a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

He felt Jones trembling under his touch and bit his lip in sympathy. “Hang in there, Jones,” he murmured. “It’ll be okay.” But he knew it wouldn’t. The cuts would heal, but taking a life was something you never got over.

“You’re going to need stitches on this one,” Bullard said, pointing at the deep gash on Jones’s left palm. “A steri strip won’t hold and will be too hard to keep dry. No point in going to emergency, though. I’ll call Kath and see if she can fit you in. She’s a marvel with sutures.”

Jones just nodded and swallowed heavily. 

“Are you feeling nauseous?” Bullard asked, curling his fingers around Jones’s wrist to take his pulse discreetly. 

“They knocked him out,” Barnaby offered, but Bullard gestured for him to keep quiet. 

“Is that true, Ben?”

Jones looked up, frowning slightly. “I was just dazed. I didn’t lose consciousness.”

“Okay. Look into the distance for me, would you?” He pulled out his penlight and moved the light between Jones’s eyes several times. “Now track my finger. Good.” He looked up at Barnaby. “Pupils dilated, but equal and reactive. Probably not a concussion, but put him on light duty for a few days.”

“That won’t be a problem.” With a fatal shooting, Jones would be on administrative leave until the investigation was complete.

“Any other injuries? You were tied up with rope. Hands behind your back?” 

Jones nodded. “Beckett tied me up while Remick kept the gun on me. Didn’t do a very good job. I was able to clench my fists and rotate my wrists to give me some slack.” His face brightened with a sudden grin. “That was one of Harry Houdini’s tricks.”

“Houdini didn’t have a murderer training a shotgun on him.” But Barnaby imagined Ben Jones, young and resourceful, begging to be tied up so he could practice his own escapes. 

“But you cut yourself free.” 

“Never got the hang of dislocating my thumb,” Jones replied. “And when Remick shot Beckett, I knew there wouldn’t be time to work on the knot. But there was a broken wine glass on the floor near me, and I was able to grab one of the shards without Remick noticing. Then it was just a question of sawing away as best I could. Luckily it was a thin rope.”

“Looks like you got more skin than rope in the process.”

Jones shrugged. “There wasn’t time to be careful,” he said. “Remick was escalating and the boss could only keep him talking so long. Fortunately Beckett’s gun was close enough to grab.”

Barnaby shook his head. “Remick was about to shoot me when Jones distracted him. Dove halfway across the room, grabbed the gun, and hit Remick, forcing him to shoot wide.”

“Are you sure about that?” Bullard asked. “Neither of you were hit?”

Barnaby had seen the shotgun blast hit the wall above Jones, but then he remembered how still his sergeant had been after the shot. “Jones?”

“I’m fine.”

It was categorically untrue, but Barnaby hadn’t seen any indication of a gunshot wound, even a graze. There were splashes and streaks of blood on Jones’s shirt, but from the cuts to his hands, not a shotgun blast.

The SOCO van pulled up and Bullard waved his team over. “One injury and one fatality inside. Get started with them while I finish up here. I’ll need an evidence kit and some photos first though.” He stood aside while the crime scene photographer took pictures of Jones’s injuries and then indicated she should do the same with Barnaby’s wrists. 

Once she was done, Barnaby looked at his watch. “It will be dinner soon. I’ll take Ben back to my place, and you and Kath can come by for a bite to eat when we’re done here.”

Jones twisted his head to look up at him. “That’s not necessary, sir. I can stop at a clinic on my way home.”

“You most certainly will not,” Barnaby retorted. “If you think I’ll deny Joyce the opportunity to fuss over a wounded hero, you’re very much mistaken.” He felt Jones’s shoulders snap taut with tension under his hand. 

“I’d rather not, sir.” Jones’s voice cracked, and Barnaby wanted to do anything he asked, but he knew the worst thing would be to leave Jones alone. 

“We’ll make a deal. No fussing, but you’ll stay in Cully’s room tonight.” He shared a long look with Bullard, who nodded in agreement

“Doctor’s orders, Ben. It’s either that or I admit you overnight for observation.”

“You said I didn’t have a concussion.” Jones had got a bit of his usual spark back, but he was no match for a determined pathologist. 

“I said probably. You shouldn’t be on your own tonight.”

“I’ll give Joyce a quick call,” Barnaby said. “Can you stay with him for a few minutes, George?”

“I don’t need to be babysat,” Jones protested. His colour was a little better, but Barnaby wasn’t going to take any chances.

“You can tell me how to escape from a locked room, while I take the residue samples,” George said, sitting down next to Jones.

“Much easier to get in,” Jones replied with a smile. “I usually just kick the door down.”

Barnaby walked a few feet away and called home, relieved when Joyce answered. “I need a favour,” he said. “Could you make up Cully’s room for Ben?”

“Is something wrong?” Joyce sounded alarmed. “You never call him Ben.”

Barnaby sometimes forgot how insightful Joyce was. “We had a little trouble today.” There were things he couldn’t tell her over the phone, things he might not even be able to tell her in the safety of their bed. One of them should be able to sleep at night. “He needs some stitches, so I asked George and Kath to come by for dinner and doctoring. I think he’ll be more comfortable if it’s not just us hovering over him. We’ll pick something up on the way home.”

“Are you all right, Tom?”

He looked back at Jones, who was staring blankly while Bullard wrapped his hands. “I am because of him.”

He heard Joyce take a sharp breath, but her voice was steady when she responded. “The sheets are clean in Cully’s room. Don’t worry about dinner. There’s a casserole in the freezer. Just bring him home.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short update and then one last chapter tomorrow - just have to tweak the ending a bit.

Jones waited quietly on the bench, while Tom called division to arrange for a new SIO, coordinated with SOCO, and made sure Beckett was taken off to hospital safely. He made one last token protest, however, when Tom told him he’d arranged for patrol to take his car to the station.

“There’s no need, sir. I can drive home. The bleeding’s almost stopped.”

“Almost being the operative word,” Bullard retorted. “It’s your dominant hand, Ben. Without stitches you could reopen it just brushing your teeth.” He patted Jones on the shoulder placatingly. “I’ve already talked to Kath. She’s on her way over.”

“Non-negotiable,” Tom pronounced. “Joyce will be insulted if you don’t come by now.”

“That’s coercion, sir,” Jones said, with a ghost of his cheeky grin, but he got into the car without any further protest. 

“I’ll be done here in another half hour,” Bullard said quietly. “Keep an eye on him, Tom. Physically he’s going to be fine, but he’s had a shock. Ben likes to act tough, but he takes things to heart.”

Tom knew that better than Bullard. Jones was a talented and dogged detective, but he took his occasional mistakes hard, and he was prone to wallowing in self-doubt. 

“I’ll see you shortly. If Inspector Cooper gets here before you leave, tell him we’ll be in to give statements tomorrow afternoon.” He wanted to give Jones as much time as possible to regain his composure. 

“So far forensics backs up your stories. I’ll give you a heads-up on anything new.”

Tom nodded his thanks. He had no doubt the investigation would fully clear Jones, but he would make sure there were no lingering questions to mar his record. 

The drive home was quiet — too quiet. Tom glanced across to the passenger seat. Jones was resting his head against the window, eyes closed. There was a smudge of dried blood on his cheek, and without thinking, Tom licked his thumb and rubbed it off. 

Jones’s eyes snapped open, and he sat up. 

“Sorry,” Tom said hastily, “Habit. Cully hates when I do that.”

“Oh,” Jones replied, wide eyes and a slightly parted mouth making him look young and lost. “That’s all right.” Looking down, he seemed to notice the state of his clothing for the first time. “I should change my shirt. I don’t want to alarm Mrs. Barnaby.”

“She’s a copper’s wife. A little blood won’t bother her.”

“Still. Not exactly what you want to see at the dinner table.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I have a jumper in the boot. Pull over and I can change quickly.” Jones had grabbed a kit bag from his car before they left; he’d started to carry a change of clothes around after his unplanned swim at the Armitage estate.

It occurred to Tom that it would be a good opportunity to check for hidden injuries, so he pulled onto the verge and got out to unlock the boot. “We should bag your shirt for evidence,” he said, when Jones waited for him to get back in the car.

“I can do that,” Jones replied pointedly, but Tom just crossed his arms and waited. 

“This is harassment, sir,” he grumbled, but slipped off his shirt. “I’m not dropping my trousers,” he said, but turned slowly around for Tom. “See? No shrapnel.”

Jones might not always follow his obscure twists of logic, but he’d had no trouble reading Tom this time. That, at least, was reassuring. The livid red mark on his side wasn’t. It might not be a bullet wound, but it looked painful nonetheless. 

“Boot?” Tom asked. “You didn’t tell George about that.”

“What about you?” Jones countered. “You haven’t said anything about what they did to you.”

“A bruised ego at being caught unawares. A headache from whatever they slipped in my tea. Rope burns on my wrists that you’ve seen. Probably a bruise or two from being manhandled about, but no fists to the face, no boots to the side.”

“Good,” Jones said emphatically. “I wasn’t too late.” He grabbed the jumper from his bag and pulled it on. “Look. You’re fine, I’m fine. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“Except you’re not fine.” It was the wrong thing to say. Tom could almost see the walls shoot up around Jones. He sighed. “Come on. Joyce is waiting for us.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence, Jones studiously staring out the side window, and Tom wishing he knew the right words to reach him.

Joyce had the front door open before Tom had even finished parking, but she waited at the door for them. She hugged Tom fiercely and looked him up and down carefully. “You’re okay,” she said, no longer a question. She looked past him to where Jones was standing. 

Stepping past Tom, she reached out to touch his bruised cheek. “Ben, sweetheart,” she said. “Are you all right?”

He looked down and shrugged. “I’m fine. Sorry to be a bother.”

“You’re not a bother in the least,” Joyce said, and drew him into a gentle hug. “Thank you,” she whispered. 

Jones stiffened, but then returned the hug awkwardly, careful not to brush his hands against her. 

Joyce stepped back and caught his forearms, tsking as she saw the cuts and bandages. “Let’s get you inside and comfortable. Kathy got here a few minutes ago, so she’ll fix you right up.” She ushered Jones inside to the kitchen, where Kathy Bullard was waiting with her medical bag.

“George tells me you need to be sewn up,” she said bluffly, patting the seat beside her. 

Jones cast a beseeching look back at Tom, but sat down meekly when no reprieve was forthcoming. Tom started to sit down as well, not ready to let Jones out of his sight, but Joyce pulled him into the living room. 

“Tell me what happened,” she demanded. “That’s not just a little trouble. Ben looks shattered.”

“He killed Leo Remick,” Tom said bluntly. Joyce would find out soon enough. Gossip ran rampant in Midsomer. “He was going to shoot me. He nearly shot Ben. It was self-defence, but that’ll be no comfort.”

“How was he hurt?”

“We were both tied up, but Jones got hold of a piece of glass. He cut himself loose. And cut himself.” Tom clenched his left fist, imagining the sharp edge of the glass shard digging into his palm as he pressed harder against the ropes. “I don’t know if I could have done it.”

“To save Ben? To save yourself? Of course you could.” She hugged him again, and Tom sheltered for a moment in the comfort of his wife’s arms.

“He’s not talking to me. Clammed up when I told him he wasn’t fine, hasn’t spoken a word since.”

“So you dragged him here, against his will.” Joyce shook her head. “Honestly, Tom. I know you mean well, and I’m sure Ben knows you mean well, but imagine if Owen had done that to you.”

“I’d be drunk and feeling no pain, most likely,” Tom said, remembering his first DI, Owen Jenkins. Owen’s solution to any work trauma involved large amounts of alcohol. If Kathy cleared Jones of a concussion, it was worth a try.

“Well don’t push him if he doesn’t want to talk. He’ll have to see the counselor, won’t he?”

Tom nodded. It was departmental policy, but he’d never met a police officer who didn’t resent it. “I just thought it might be easier if he talked to me.”

“Easier for you, maybe. But you’re his boss, not his friend. He won’t want to admit any weakness to you.”

Tom knew she was right. Jones was eager to learn, but he was also desperate to impress. Breaking through those walls wouldn’t be easy, but he hadn’t risen to the rank of Chief Inspector without learning a few ways of bypassing obstacles.


	3. Chapter 3

Tom woke with a start, his heart pounding. He could still hear the echo of the shotgun blast in his head and Ben’s gasp of pain. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, letting the burst of adrenaline wash away. He glanced at the clock. Two am. With luck he’d be able to drop off again. It would help knowing that Ben was safe, just down the hall.

He was debating getting up to check on him, just to make absolutely sure, when a shout broke the dark silence of the house.

For a moment he thought he was still dreaming, that Remick had come back to exact his revenge on Ben, but then Joyce murmured and reached for his hand. She rolled over, as Tom sat up. “Go back to sleep,” he whispered. “I’m just going to see if he’s okay.”

“He’s not okay, Tom.” She sat up as well. “You check on him and I’ll go make some cocoa. It always helped Cully when she had nightmares.”

Tom doubted cocoa would solve anything, but he wouldn’t deny Ben any comfort. 

He knocked on the bedroom door, but didn’t wait for a response before opening it. Enough light filtered in from the hallway that Tom didn’t need to switch on the light to see the state of his sergeant. 

Ben had kicked away the covers, but he was still gripped in a nightmare. “No,” he moaned, and when Tom moved closer, he saw sweat and tear tracks glistening silver on his face. 

Tom sat on the edge of the bed. “Wake up, Ben,” he called out softly, shaking Ben’s shoulder lightly, then harder when he didn’t respond. 

Ben stiffened and then jerked awake, rolling away from Tom’s touch. 

“It’s okay. You’re all right.” Tom murmured, gripping Ben’s shoulder, trying to ground him. Ben trembled violently and gulped deep, ragged breaths. “Hush. It was just a dream. Everything is alright.”

“Sir?” he said, in a small, broken voice that nearly shattered Tom’s own composure.

“I’m here. You’re safe.”

Ben rolled over, his eyes widening when he saw Tom leaning over him. He reached up and grabbed the sleeve of Tom’s dressing gown. “But you’re dead.”

“It was just a dream. I’m all right. You saved me.”

Ben took another deep, shuddering breath and dropped his hand until he could circle Tom’s wrist. It took Tom a second to realize Ben was taking his pulse, so he lifted Ben’s hand and placed it over his heart. “See? Just a dream.”

Ben covered his face with his arm, but didn’t let go of Tom. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“Don’t apologize. Nightmares are par for the course.” It was why he’d insisted Ben stay. He knew that everything Ben couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge in the daylight would haunt him in the night. “If you want to tell me about it, I’m here to listen. If you don’t, I’m still here.”

“I couldn’t get the ropes free,” Ben whispered. “I couldn’t stop him from shooting you.”

“But you did. You saved my life.” He could still see Ben diving for the gun, would be seeing it in his own dreams, but with a different ending. “That was quite the shot.”

For an instant, a pleased smile lit up Ben’s face, and he sat up. “I joined the gun team a couple of years back. Clay pigeons. Thought it might be useful.” The smile faded, leaving his face shadowed again. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“If you’d missed, he would have shot you. You did what you had to do. That doesn’t make it any easier to live with, but at least we’re both still here to live with it.” He clapped Ben on the shoulder. ”Come downstairs. Joyce is making cocoa.”

Ben looked alarmed, but swung out of bed. “I thought you said no fussing, sir.”

“It’s not fussing, it’s cocoa.”

Ben glanced at his watch. “At 2 am?”

“The best time to have cocoa.” He led Ben down to the kitchen, where Joyce was just filling the mugs.

“Sit down, Ben,” she said. “Tom likes warm milk after a bad dream, but I think cocoa is cozier, don’t you?” She didn’t wait for him to respond. “It reminds me of when we used to sneak down to the kitchen during sleepovers.”

Tom glanced at Ben, fighting a grin at the wide-eyed panic on his expressive face. He took two mugs from Joyce and passed one to Ben. He took a sip and raised an eyebrow. “One of those sleepovers, eh.” The bite of whisky was an added heat he hadn’t expected. “I hope this isn’t the cocoa you gave to Cully.”

“Not when she was a child.”

Ben took a sip and grinned. “It’s delicious, Mrs. Barnaby.” 

“Just the thing for a late-night drink.” Joyce pulled a chair up and took a sip from her own mug. 

The smile slipped away, and Ben looked down. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Don’t be silly, Ben,” Joyce chided. “After the day you had? If Tom hadn’t brought you home, I would have sent him off to fetch you.” She reached out and gently stroked the now darkening bruise on Ben’ cheek. “Tom has woken me many times over the years.”

“I told you she’s a copper’s wife.” Tom thought back to his last bout of nightmares. “Do you remember when you dove into Midsomer Mere, after Raymond Braithewaite thought he’d swim his way to freedom.”

“What a tosser,” Ben exclaimed. “He could barely manage a dog paddle.”

“Didn’t stop him from pulling you under when you caught up to him.” He could still see Ben disappearing under the surface, an eternity passing as he held his own breath. He’d had his own jacket and shoes off, ready to dive in, when Ben finally broke the surface, Braithewaite in his grasp.

Ben grinned suddenly. “ _And the devil will drag you under by the fancy tie round your wicked throat_ ,” he sang, “ _Guys and Dolls_ ,” he said, smirking at Tom’s baffled expression. “I played Nicely Nicely at Causton Comp.”

“A lovely voice like yours,” Joyce exclaimed. “You should have been Sky Masterson.”

“Would have had to miss too many rugby practices.” He nudged Tom. “Next time remind me to take off my shoes, jacket _and_ tie before I dive in.”

“Next time we’ll wait for a boat. I thought he was drowning you.” He’d waded out to help bring Braithewaite in, grabbing the sodding and sodden idiot, while Ben stumbled onto the shore and collapsed on his back, gasping from the exertion. 

“Oh, that was nothing. I can hold my breath for nearly two minutes. Used to practice when I was a kid.” 

Tom wondered what happened in Ben’s childhood to make him cultivate survival skills. It occurred to him that he knew next to nothing of his sergeant’s personal life, other than the occasional handy tip from one of his relatives. “I’ll remember that the next time somebody tries to drown you.”

Joyce shook her head. “Awake you might, but not asleep. Three nights in a row he woke me up, thrashing about.”

“Yes, yes, I said I was sorry,” Tom said, fondness smoothing the edges of his words. 

“And three nights in a row you made up an excuse to call poor Ben in the middle of the night.”

Ben ducked his head. “I wondered,” he admitted. “The excuses weren’t very good.” 

But he’d said nothing, just patiently listened to Tom’s manufactured reasons for calling. A report due that Ben had submitted days before, a theory on a cold case, a misdialed number. It hadn’t mattered what he said, as long as he had the reassurance of Ben’s voice in his ear.

“You don’t need to make up excuses,” Ben said softly. “I’ll understand.” He looked up. “But thank you for letting me stay here tonight. Hearing your voice wouldn’t have been enough.”

“You’re welcome any time, Ben,” Joyce reassured him. “And not just on the days when you’ve saved my husband’s life.” She stood up and kissed first Tom and then Ben on the cheek. “I’ll leave you boys to talk. Take as long as you need,” she whispered in Tom’s ear, and he knew she was remembering the nights she’d spent with Cully, soothing away their daughter’s nightmares. 

Joyce had left some cocoa warming on the stove, so Tom topped up both their mugs, adding a stronger splash of scotch this time. “Drink up,” he said. “It won’t change anything, but it might help you sleep.” It seemed as good a time as any for Owen’s favourite solution.

But Ben pushed the mug away. “I don’t want to sleep.” He stood up. “Would you mind if I watched television with the volume low? I think the Commonwealth Games are on.”

“Of course not,” Tom replied. “But you need rest.” It took all his diminished willpower not to reach up and check Ben’s forehead for fever.

“I can’t,” Ben replied, his voice breaking. “Maybe later, but not now.”

“Okay,” Tom said quickly. He grabbed both mugs, just in case, and led Ben into the living room. He turned on the TV, flipping the channels until he found live coverage from Melbourne. “Track all right?” he asked, skipping quickly past a shooting competition. He sat down on the couch, not quite next to Ben, but close enough to feel the heat of his body in the night air. 

Ben looked at him with a guarded half-smile. “You don’t have to stay up,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“I know you are. But it was always going to be a toss-up, which one of us would wake Joyce up first.” Fragments of his own dream still tumbled in his head. He waited until Ben was watching the next race. “Beckett’s gun was empty and Remick didn’t miss. When you cried out, I didn’t know if it was real or part of my dream.” 

“Oh,” Ben said. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for now, Benjamin,” Tom said, mock sternly. He was dimly aware that he sounded more like a father than a boss, but as Joyce had pointed out, Ben was never going to open up to his superior officer. 

“You shouldn’t have to worry about me, awake or asleep.”

“I’d be a pretty terrible boss if I didn’t worry about you. And inasmuch as the balance of power allows, a worse friend.” He smiled at Ben’s poorly concealed expression of surprise. “What? I don’t make my lapin à la shotgun pellets for just anyone.”

He was treated to a full, unguarded Ben Jones smile. “Thank you, sir. That means a lot to me.”

Tom smiled back. “As your boss and your friend, I won’t force you to talk to me about what happened today. Yesterday,” he amended. “But I hope you know you can tell me anything.”

Ben turned his attention back to the screen, pretending to be engrossed in the victory lap. “I keep wondering what I could have done differently. Rushed him instead of going for the gun? He might have shot you before I got there. Point blank he wouldn’t have missed.”

“Or he would have shot you point blank,” Tom said. “Drawing his fire across the room was the only chance you had.”

“I only wanted to wing him, but there wasn’t time to aim.” He covered his face with his hands. “He shouldn’t have died.”

“Peter Deering shouldn’t have died either. Or Maureen McBryde.”

Ben shuddered and took a ragged breath. “It doesn’t feel like justice to me.”

“No,” Tom agreed. “It never does.” 

Ben nodded and risked a glance at Tom. “I dreamed it was happening all over again. I knew I was dreaming, but it was all wrong. I couldn’t get free. Remick shot you, then left me there, as if he knew he may as well have killed me too.” His voice broke, and Tom felt his own throat tighten.

“Ben,” he said. “Look at me.” He sighed when Ben stared stubbornly ahead, jaw set. “You cut through the ropes and got the gun. And Remick might be dead, but I’m alive, because of you.” He reached out and turned Ben’s head, holding firm until he finally met his eyes. “Because of you,” Tom repeated.

Ben’s eyes were dark with unshed tears, so Tom dropped his hand to his shoulder and squeezed gently before turning back to the television. He thought back to the long moment after the gunshots, when Ben hadn’t moved, and his breath caught in his chest. “You were so still after the shots. I don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t missed.”

“Uniform wasn’t far away,” Ben replied. “You would have been rescued soon.”

“That’s not…” Tom sputtered, appalled that Ben would think that was his first concern. Then he saw the corner of Ben’s mouth quirk upwards and knew he was giving them an out with one of those gentle teases that Tom found alternately endearing and annoying. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he huffed, but left his hand on Ben’s shoulder, as they both stared at the television.

“Not if I can help it,” Ben replied. After a moment, he picked up his mug of cocoa, and they sat together in silence until it was safe to tempt sleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
